


Those Were The Days We Thought Would Never End

by Cymry



Series: Godlike [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Godlike (Roleplaying Game), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Couple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, World War II Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymry/pseuds/Cymry
Summary: People think they know what Steve and Bucky went through in the war. It's in the history books after all. But some things didn't make it into books or museums. You had to be there.Peggy Carter was there. But she forgets.





	Those Were The Days We Thought Would Never End

**Author's Note:**

> In the world of Godlike, the first superheroes started to appear in 1936. Gaining superpowers can happen to anyone in a life-threatening situation or to those with the force of will to warp reality itself. They are known as Talents. Those who were broken by the process of biological reeducation, pioneered by organisations like Hydra, are called Mad Talents.
> 
> This will all make a lot more sense if you read the previous two entries. But you'll like them, I promise. :)

**1.**

“What do you mean ‘she forgets’?”

Across the desk, the shrink ( _call me Ray_ ) folded his hands,

“It’s a condition called Alzheimer's, a form of dementia. You know what-”

“Yes,” said Steve, “I know what that is.”

He thought of old Mrs Piotrowski who’d been waiting at the trolley stop in her nightgown convinced she was on her way to work. Steve had held onto her hand, while Bucky had run for his Ma. She’d spoken to him in Polish and smiled and called him Jacek.

“So she has problems with short-term memory, but we find the past sticks more often than not. Most likely she’d remember you.” She’d remember the _Valkyrie_ and the ice. “We could contact her for you if you like. Dr Thibodeau’s made the same offer to James for-”

“You told Bucky about Peggy?”

Beneath his fingers, the sheaf of papers started to crinkle, pushing Peggy’s life story into ridges and folds. They’d been in the future for five days. Five days of moving about like ghosts and seeing the shadows behind Bucky’s eyes cling on.

“I don’t think he did. We’ve tracked down his sisters’ children and-”

“I’d like to go. Please.”

“But Captain Rogers, I really think-”

“I’d like to go back to Bucky. Please.”

The very first thing the shrinks had told them was that all they had to do was say so and their session would end if they were uncomfortable. Already Bucky had dispensed with asking and just appeared whenever Steve happened to be. Since Steve wasn’t a teleporter, he’d settled on repeating himself in a calm, clear voice until they did what he asked.

“Okay then.” Ray smiled at him from behind his big, bushy beard. “Just let someone know if you need to talk, okay?”

He was escorted everywhere like no one had quite decided what to do with two transplants from 1945 and they were keeping an eye on them until they did. Steve forced himself to keep to a walking pace, even though he could move faster than either of these two gentlemen. Nervous energy fizzed under his skin, needing to get back to Bucky.

He was in their windowless apartment at least. Steve had never been a charmer like Bucky - especially with the women he used to throw at him - but he could read people. And he’d known Bucky from the age of five. Been his lover since he was eighteen. There were few mysteries between them.

“Hey, Buck.”

“Hi.”

Bucky’s shoulders were hunched up in an angry line. He had a book, but wasn’t taking in the words. And there was a drift of papers strewn across the table and floor, exactly as though someone had flung them away.

“They got you too,” said Bucky, giving up the pretense of reading to stare at Steve’s rapidly crumpling papers.

“Mostly. I didn’t get anything about your folks.”

Bucky had been half-curled up on the coach as though making himself smaller would get the cameras off him. But now he unfolded himself, settling in a stance like he was about to finish a fight.

“What the hell? Far as we were concerned you and your Ma were family. Gracie-” and when he said that name there was the barest tiniest flinch “-thought you were blood-related for a whole year.”

“I remember. Are you okay?”

Because all the anger and bravado didn’t quite hide the pain. At least not from Steve. And there was so much pain in Bucky these days, just out of sight.

“Christ. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I like looking at you” was probably too risky to say,

“Like what, pal?” He put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, feeling the muscles underneath tense. “You okay?”

“We both know I’m not,” said Bucky slipping into sub-vocalisation, speaking so quietly and lowly that only parahuman hearing could pick it up. “Or else they wouldn’t keep throwing shrinks at me.” He waved a hand at the tumble of papers, everything SHIELD thought that Bucky wanted to know about his friends and family and the lives they’d lead while they’d both been in the ice. “It was Gracie. She died 1947. Trolley accident. Like my folks hadn’t been through enough already just two years after I…” He gritted his teeth. “And then they asked did I want to send a letter out to to Rebecca and Mary’s kids? Or their grandkids?”

Steve wanted nothing more than to put his fingers through Bucky’s dark hair and kiss him and take him to bed and let him forget it all. Even in the war there’d been a ruined building or the uncertain privacy of their tent. But this was the future and cameras were everywhere. All he could do was reach out and pull him in and thump him on the back. Peggy’s life slipped out through his fingers and settled on the floor. Out of order, out of alignment. Like theirs.

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

“This is all fucked up,” said Bucky against Steve’s broad shoulder.

“I know. I know.”

He thumped him lightly on the back again, and did not kiss him on the side of the head. This was the future and cameras were everywhere. And he only got to be close to Bucky when he was in pain.

**2.**

**18th November, 1943**

It wasn’t quite the done thing to be sat in the back of the truck with the men when there was a seat up front with the driver. But things had become quite elastic in wartime, the munitions factories staffed by women, British streets where Americans, free French, and Jewish refugees rubbed shoulders with the locals. So Peggy sat and she watched Steve Rogers and James Barnes.

Barnes had fallen asleep against Steve’s shoulder almost as soon as they’d left the hospital. The thin skin of his eyelids was seemingly bruised from lack of sleep and behind them his eyes moved in dreams. Actual bruises - yellow and old, purple and fresh - peeked out from under his collar and sleeves. Fresh bandages were wrapped around his hands.

She waited to make sure he wasn’t faking before she leant forward and said,

“Steve.”

He must have known this conversation would be happening. She didn’t get the same treatment he’d given the hospital surgeons, but he gave her a look that said ‘I know’.

“This isn’t the only way. We can always find a hospital in England. Or better yet, send him home to his family.”

“I promised him. I can’t-”

Barnes made a pained noise in his sleep, almost lost under the rumble of the wheels on neglected roads. He frowned briefly before his breathing and forehead smoothed back out. Steve waited for five breaths before continuing,

“You heard what they were going to do to him, Peg,” he said lowly. “I can’t leave him behind, not if there’s a risk that someone else might decide on the… on the lobotomy.”

“Did you see the files on O’Malley?”

America’s first Mad Talent had killed his CO with a single punch and then demolished an American battleship with his bare hands. O’Malley never had a Steve Rogers to advocate against the procedure.

“Bucky isn’t O’Malley.” Steve stuck out his jaw with familiar stubbornness. “The only people he killed were enemy Talents. The absolute worst thing he did to our side was a concussion to an MP even if he was scared outta his skin. I’ve known him since I was five. He’ll fight with me.”

“Then I’ll respect his choice.”

If Steve wanted Barnes so badly then Peggy would get him. And there were reasons to do so beyond what she might feel for a certain American captain. No one could say that the United States had a surplus of Talents. They had a rough idea of how many parahumans existed, number skewed by partisans and Nazi propaganda, but it was clear that the USA was behind. They wanted more and no one could deny that Barnes wasn’t effective. Even if his powers were hidden behind an amnesia effect - except for Steve and his inner circle - there were three dead Nazi Talents already. Phillips would see that. The man was nothing if not practical.

Barnes woke like he’d been shocked. His body jerked upwards, his limbs thrashing, and a scream tearing its way out his throat. Then everyone forgot. After that slice of missing memory, both Barnes and Steve were standing in the cramped space.

“It’s okay,” Steve was saying. One of his hands was clamped to Barnes’ chin, keeping eye contact. “We’re leaving the hospital.”

Barnes’ eyes were locked to Steve’s. Everyone else had averted their gaze, either out of politeness or fear that Barnes’ future might be theirs.

“Steve.”

“Yeah, Buck, it’s me.”

“They were going to…” His hand in its clean dressings rose up to touch the thin skin and bone over his temple. Fear and confusion gave way to outrage. “My goddam brain.”

“Not while I’m around. You with me, Buck?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders relaxed. Just for a second his entire body drew closer to Steve’s like gravity. “I’m with you.”

**3.**

Natasha had teased and called it feathering the nest, but Egyptian cotton bed sheets had mysteriously appeared in their supplies. Bruce had sent them a _link_ to two _websites_. One practical with all sorts of useful information about buying and maintaining houses. And after the kitchen incident

( _real estate agent proudly revealing ranks of stainless steel like a Hydra laboratory and Bucky falling to his knees retching like he could get rid of the smell of disinfectant_ )

he’d sent another full of disastrous home projects that had made Bucky smile from the safety of Steve’s arms.

Then it was done and the Barnes-Rogers household moved into a prewar place out in Flatbush. Last time they’d moved Steve had had an asthma attack halfway through taking their plates up eight floors. No such problems this time.

“We could do this for a living,” he’d said to Bucky holding an entire couch above his head.

Even though their furniture didn’t fill both stories or the converted attic, it was a start. It was theirs.

“These sheets are amazing.”

Bucky was sprawled the wrong way across the bed, the picture of contentment. His bare toes dug into the fabric.

“Natasha,” he continued, “has excellent taste.” His head rolled to one side, regarding Steve from under his dark lashes. “You want to try them out with me?”

“I thought you wanted to get food,” said Steve from the doorway. Predictably, Bucky shot up, eyes wide with outrage.

“ _Steven Rogers_!” Steve couldn’t keep a straight face. “Your husband’s lying out in front of you, entirely legal in the eyes of the law, and you’re thinking of food?”

Bucky was only a short distance away across the original hardwood floors much mentioned by their estate agent. Maybe they needed a rug for winter? As he approached, Bucky turned his face away, pretending affront.

“I’m thinking that we get the food-” he pressed a kiss to the delicate shell of Bucky’s ear “-we bring the food back here-” a kiss to his cheek “-we eat the food-” a kiss to the tip of his nose “-and then we go to bed and don’t come out until morning.” And when Bucky turned his head, he kissed him full on the mouth, Bucky’s fingers lacing together at the back of his neck.

“You know,” said Bucky, warm breath ghosting over Steve’s mouth, “in the future they got this thing called delivery. You call and they bring the food _to_ you.”

“Now where’s the fun in that, Mr. Barnes? Don’t you want to explore our new neighbourhood?”

An advantage of parahuman strength was that, if your husband was grousing about having to leave your new, comfortable bed, you could wrap one arm around his waist and haul him up. Bucky went with mock reluctance, folding over onto himself like wet laundry. He did put his coat on under his own power and together they stepped out into the cold evening.

Almost immediately, Bucky slipped his arm into Steve’s to steal body heat. Even before they’d become lovers he’d been tactile, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders, slapping him on the back. And psychical touch was a reliable weapon against all the stuff in his head. Not that he needed it right now.

“I know I’m pretty Rogers, but there’s no need to stare.”

“Jerk.”

Imagine being able to kiss your lawfully-wedded husband on New York’s streets. London’s blackout had been useful in that deep pools of shadows had been easy to find especially with a Talent like Bucky who detected human heartbeats and had hearing like a bat. Peggy had called London the grand old lady of cities. How did Washington D.C. compare? Favourably Steve hoped. Even if… Even if she didn’t…

Bucky squeezed his arm. Their signal. _Here I am_.

“Hey, Buck. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Bucky smiled at him, whatever thought had upset him gone so quick it might never had happened at all. Steven squeezed him back.

This was New York, so they didn’t have to go far to find food. Steve let Bucky tug him along to a glorious-smelling place that did Nepalese. While they stood and read the outside menu, Steve kept himself in between Bucky and the rest of the sidewalk. His body was safe harbour.

( _And if his thoughts were consumed with Bucky and keeping him safe from harm then the weight of Steve’s problems could be kept from notice for a little while longer, right up until_ )

“We can go see Peggy if you like,” said Bucky. A plastic bag of food swung from his free hand, his other one tangled with Steve’s. “I might not have been her favourite, but you she was sweet on.” His eyes travelled slowly across Steve’s face and immediately Steve tried to school it into… something. Some other expression. “I can even stay at home. If you want to go down to D.C. by yourself.”

“No!” was what got out before Steve bit it off. Bucky’s eyebrows rose.

“I’m a grown man, Steve. Used to be I’d not see you for a whole day and survive.”

He looked straight ahead, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smile.

“I like seeing that mug all day.” Steve squeezed his hand. _Here I am_. Here he was doing a terrible job at keeping the invisible knives from Bucky’s flesh. “I do, Buck. It’s just… It’s Peggy.”

“What about her?”

He shouldn’t have put it on Bucky, but it all flowed out of him like bleeding and it didn’t stop until they reached their front door. The sight of the red brick and the glossy black door, made Steve feel better. Prewar was best. They were built solid. Hopefully that went for prewar people too.

“How come you didn’t say?” said Bucky. He let go of Steve’s hand at the top of the stairs, but only to dig in his pocket for the key.

“You’d just found out about Gracie. I couldn’t put my stuff on you as well.”

“I could’ve handled it,” said Bucky to the door. “Maybe.”

With the door locked behind them, Steve felt better. He felt even better when Bucky reached up and ruffled his hair.

“If you want to go, you tell me, okay? I’ll go with you if you want me to.”

“Okay. Okay, Bucky.”

Maybe if he had Bucky with him, it would encourage him to remember what was important. Bucky needed him and he needed him with a clear head.

“Good.” Warm kiss to his cheek. “Now let’s feed you.”

Nepalese food was good. A lot of it was spicy enough to make their eyes stream, and the internet recommended milk for that. Even so that was a little heat lingering in Bucky’s mouth when Steve kissed him. Kissing him had always felt a little like that.

They dumped the dishes ( _theirs_ ) in the sink ( _theirs_ ) and went upstairs. No landlord was going to appear once a month for rent or threaten to kick them out onto the street if they fell behind. This bedroom was their bedroom. The bed was their bed.

“You know,” said Steve, “these sheets _are_ amazing.”

“You are unbelievable sometimes, Rogers.”

Bucky pushed him over with one hard shove - naked back against those very nice sheets - and straddled him. Teasing was fun, but the clean, strong lines of Bucky’s body had no compare. He’d put on weight and muscle after being worn down by war and the future. Steve licked his lips.

“Hi.”

“More interesting than sheets?”

“More interesting than food.” Bucky didn’t shake his hands off his hips.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Sometimes I think you look at me like you want to eat me.”

That sounded like an amazing idea. Steve rolled them again (thank God they had a big bed). He ran his mouth over Bucky’s throat, sampled the sweep of his collarbone, and the delicious dip of his Apollo’s lines.

“You always did show a fella a good time,” Bucky purred. He wriggled around, lying on his belly, his head pillowed on his arm. Laid out like a feast. “You come here.”

Even with the wonderful hitching noise Bucky made when Steve bottomed out and the warm tight heat of him, the best bit was when they settled down to sleep. Bucky rolled over and pressed his back to Steve’s chest. He smelt really good. Felt really good. And he felt steady and safe.

“Love you,” he said into Bucky’s hair. They had enough space to sleep without touching but, since they hadn’t got there yet, he put an arm around Bucky to keep him warm.

“Love you too.”

Bucky tugged the quilt more fully over them and they fell asleep like that.

**4.**

**16th October, 1944**

They were near the German border, walking a torn-up road under dripping black trees. Peggy had been shuffled into the middle of the group, but she tried not to take offense at it. The Howlies would trust her to fire straight and true should they be ambushed, and they weren’t likely to be surprised with Barnes ranging… somewhere. Sometimes Steve would turn his head and smile, and Barnes would be up in the trees or ahead of them for just a moment.

They turned a switchback corner and Barnes was stood by a truck, peering through the driver’s side window. It was a German vehicle, smashed into a tree. The front of it was crumpled and there was a soldier lying still in the driver’s seat.

“Dead,” said Barnes and he started around to the back.

There was still blood dripping slowly off the driver’s chin. This was a recent crash, perhaps they would have heard it, if not for the muffling fog and trees. She thought the driver was young from the smooth hand sprawled out on the dashboard. It would be hard to tell from his face.

This kind of vehicle was a troop transport, and there were footprints in the mud around it. Where had they gone?

“Rogers,” said Falsworth lowly and he jerked his head towards the back of the truck.

Barnes stood there, but his eyes were blank. He was somewhere far away. At least until Steve touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Hey.”

There was years of knowledge in the look they shared. The smallest incline of the head; a small movement of the eye; the tightening of the mouth; it was practically a whole conversation. At the end Barnes was back in his skin, Steve’s hand still on his shoulder.

“With me, Buck?”

“Yes.” Barnes patted Steve’s arms and he let go. Together the both of them stepped into the back.

There were four cages and bodies in two of them. One man was stiff, dead for half a day already. The other was recent. Broken neck. Both wore straightjackets, the Odal rune painted on the back in stark, black paint. German Talents used to wear it on their uniforms until the sharpshooters cottoned on. No such care for manufactured Mad Talents.

Barnes’ face was a mask.

Another cage looked like something had exploded out of it. So there was another one on the loose.

Barnes and Steve were having another of those wordless conversations.

“We’re going into the woods,” said Steve finally. “And then we’ll come back. To bury them. It’s what anyone would do.”

Oh Steve. It’s what _you_ would do. The Nazis wouldn’t. The brass would rub their hands and send the bodies back to England so they could try to pry out the secrets of what made a Talent.

The first corpse was a hundred metres into the woods. His intestines were still faintly steaming in the cold air. The second had no head. The third lay in the middle of a drift of wet leaves with his throat laid open.

Barnes touched Steve’s shoulder once.

“Yeah. I hear it too.”

The two Talents out-stripped the rest of them easily. Even before they caught up, Peggy heard the noise - a wet, tearing noise that echoed off the dark trees.

Steve stood before them, jaw set into a grim line, looking down into a shallow ravine. Down there in the cold waters of the narrow stream was the woman and the final corpse in German uniform.

She was frog-belly pale and scars stood out in livid lines on her skin and under the brown stubble on her head. The remains of her straitjacket and her trousers were soaked through with water and blood, but not enough the obliterate the Odal rune. As Peggy watched she took two bites from the body in front of her. One with her human mouth, worrying a short strip from the forearm. And the other bite with the great fanged muzzle that grew from her torso, offal being chewed up between palm-length teeth.

“Mother of God,” whispered Dugan and her head whipped around to stare at them.

Her eyes were very blue and mad. A scrap of flesh fell from the corner of her mouth. The world held its breath for a long moment.

“Ma’am? Can we-” said Steve before she leapt straight at him. Her hand crunched as it struck Steve’s shield, and Peggy already had a gun in her hand before Steve flung his free arm out wide.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Oh God, she’d been remade in the same way as Barnes, and Steve had transferred all that meaning onto a woman that was trying to kill him. Some orders cannot be followed. She tried to go in from the side, but the mad Talent had already gone under the shield and dragged Steve down into the ravine. By the time Peggy was at the edge, Barnes had stepped in, standing over Steve with a knife.

She was in the stream, her eyes fixed on the two of them. When she stood up the muzzle swung like a grotesque pregnancy. It extended beyond her fingertips, and the skin of it was stretched tighter than a drum. Her legs were backwards like a wolf’s.

“Brother?” she hissed. German, a hint of Austria in her accent. She stayed in the water, eyes fixed on Barnes.

“Mistaken,” he snapped back in the same language. Steve rolled to his feet behind him.

“No.” Her hands reached out. There was dirt and meat under her claw-like fingernails. “I smell Zola on you.”

Barnes went blank instantly, but Steve stepped in front of him, hiding him behind his broad shoulders and shield.

“What’s your name?”

“Brother and I do not have names.”

A shudder went through Barnes’ back.

“He has a name. It’s James. You have a name.”

But she shook her head slowly like it pained her.

“But we can help,” continued Steve. His accent was very good. “We can get you a doctor-”

“No doctor!” She bared her teeth. Both sets. “No hospital!”

“Whatever you want. Just let us get you somewhere safe.

Again she shook her head. Her one remaining breast peeked through her shredded clothing, the wolf teeth parted like she wanted to pant through that terrible extra mouth.

“No safety. No one is safe. Just kill me.”

Steve rocked like he’d been struck. Barnes put a hand on his back. Around Peggy the Howlies waited for their captain’s order.

Sensing his objection, she stepped out of the stream on her wolf feet. Her shoulders started to hunch, her ears started to move up the sides of her head.

“End it, American! Kill me kill me kill”

She was fast. Barnes was faster. His shot took her right through the forehead. Talents never lingered after death, not even the mad ones. And so the body that fell into the mud was an ordinary woman, scarred up and brutalised and dead.

**5.**

“Hey, Steve. Wake up.”

Steve opened his eyes and for a minute he saw the black trees and mud before it was replaced with their dark bedroom and with Bucky’s face.

“You were muttering in your sleep.” Bucky was still in Steve’s tight hold. His neck and back were twisted around to face him, an impossible move without parahuman agility. “Bad dream?”

“I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s okay.” He tapped Steve’s arm and when his grip loosened, he turned himself around to be chest-to-chest. Cold and mud were things locked outside their house. “What did you dream about?”

“Nothing. Just war stuff. It’s nothing really. You go back to sleep.”

If anyone deserved a good night’s sleep, it was Bucky, whose mind replayed his time on Zola’s table again and again. He didn’t need Steve’s baggage too.

“You go back with me, sweetheart,” he said, sliding an arm over Steve’s waist.

The face of now-Bucky was replaced with 1944-Bucky, all pale and shaking against the dark trees and saying “she wanted it and she’s not hurting anymore and that’s good isn’t it” but only for a second so Steve didn’t mention it. Instead he tucked Bucky’s head under his chin and tried to push the bad memories back under the surface.

**6.**

**17th October, 1943**

“Peg.” Steve nearly mowed down several people on his way through the - diminished - crowd. He’d spent the entire briefing with his lips pressed thin and his arms folded. Now all the blood had gone out of his face. “Peg, is it true? Are they targeting Talents?”

“Yes.”

She watched him turn in the direction of the empty camp. Hydra - much feared Nazi science division - had spirited away more than a hundred men, leaving empty tents, discarded personal effects, fallen weapons. Most of the remaining men wouldn’t go near them.

“What for?”

“Study. With less scruples than our side. Officially German High Command do not believe in the existence of Allied Talents, so records and protections are… non-existent. Steve?”

His hands were trembling, but his legs were firmly planted in the muddy earth. Quickly Peggy reviewed known missing Talents. John McColl, codename: _Tawny Owl_ , ability: night vision and limited invisibility in darkness. Adrien B. Lloyd, codename: _Razor_ , ability: cutting through material when making a cutting motion with his hands. Neither of them very close to Steve, not enough to cause this reaction.

“Steve, is there another Talent?”

She had more than a sneaking suspicion who it was. And Steve only confirmed it when he said,

“It’s Bucky. On our last mission he… Only for three days…” Then all his limbs stopped shaking and resolve crept in. His lovely square jaw firmed up. “I don’t care what they say. I’m going after him.”

Captured Allied Talents never appeared in official communications or PoW camps. Captured Allied Talents were never seen again. But the Talents of the 107th had Steven Rogers on their side.

**7.**

Before going to bed, Steve had made sure that his alarm was turned off. Though his body woke automatically at the usual time he didn’t get up for his morning run. Instead he stayed still, Bucky’s head on his shoulder and his body half-sprawled over his. His enhanced hearing picked up the faint sounds of traffic and their neighbours. But mostly he dozed to the sound of Bucky’s slow, soft breathing.

Bucky had woken up in the night twice this week, once screaming and not knowing where he was. But yesterday had been a good day and last night had been a good night so Steve hoped for another. Today of all days.

Eventually Bucky’s body shifted, his stubble scratching a little. His breathing changed when he woke up.

“Hey,” Bucky said in a drowsy voice. His face came into view, topped with sleep-rumpled hair. “You playing hooky?”

Steve’s fingers went of their own accord to that hair. It was getting longer, like it used to be before the Army. Steve had almost forgotten the slight wave at the ends and the way it felt when he ran his fingers through it. He’d spent his whole life being charmed by Bucky.

“I had something important to do. Happy birthday, Bucky.”

Bucky beamed, propping his chin on his hands,

“Am I still the prettiest one in the old folks’ home?”

“Prettiest one in any home.”

“Well I don’t know what you’re going to do if I lose my hair.”

Steve finally let go of it, smoothing his hand down the beautiful line of Bucky’s back. He’d learnt figure-drawing and anatomy from Bucky willingly posing. Since 1936 he’d been allowed to touch like this too. And even when he was small - especially when he was small - he’d loved having Bucky spread out beneath him. He rolled them both over, just to check. Yes. He still liked it.

“If you were anyone else I wouldn’t accept this sort of man-handling, you know.”

“I know.” He kissed Bucky, long and sweet, so they could both forget exactly why Bucky wouldn’t accept being held down by anyone else. For a second there, Steve could see the wide band of bruised flesh across Bucky’s chest. It had taken days to fade, even if Bucky healed fast. He kissed where it had been half-a-dozen times before Bucky wriggled and he gave him what he wanted.

He brought Bucky close with his mouth until he was nearly sobbing with it. And when he was done, Bucky half-coaxed, half-pulled Steve up until he could get his hands on him.

“So,” said Bucky. Their foreheads were pressed together, their sticky bodies pressed together. “So what’s the plan?”

Steve actually had three plans. When Bucky was off in therapy and when he was on his morning runs, he’d planned for Bucky on a bad day and on a good day. And he’d sketched out a plan, the merest skeleton of a plan, in case he had a bad day too.

“Get up and shower. Make you some breakfast. Go out into the city. Then go out to eat.”

“Bet an important fella like you got reservations easily.”

“Well, when they heard _the_ Bucky Barnes was coming-”

“Shut up.”

He swatted at Steve’s head, but not at his full speed and besides, Steve was already kissing him.

**8.**

**10th March, 1944**

London’s hodge-podge billeting system had landed the Howling Commandos in a tall townhouse, the owners having fled to the country to escape the bombs and Germany’s flying Talents. Peggy could imagine that the arrival of a squad of Americans might rank on the same scale of disaster for some of the neighbours. Were it not for the blackout curtains would be twitching.

“Carter!” said Dugan, letting her into the hall. The narrow corridor was mostly taken up by men standing at the mirror, jostling each other with combing and primping. The first night of R&R and they were taking full advantage it seemed.

“You looking for the captain? He’s in the kitchen,” said Jones. They all referred to him as _the_ captain as though there was only one worth talking about.

“Don’t make him late!” called Dugan as everyone packed themselves over to one side of the hall so Peggy could pass.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, full of the smell of coffee. Both Steve and Sergeant Barnes stood up when she entered the room.

“Good evening, Captain. Sergeant.”

“Hi, Peg,” said Steve.

“You should say something about how nice she looks, you dope,” said Barnes with a grin. “I thought your Talent fixed your eyes.”

Steve ducked his head, his fair complexion actually pinking up. It wasn’t the reason Peggy was airing out her best red dress tonight. When people’s eyes were occupied with the cut of her neckline or her nylons, they were less likely to spot what she was carrying in her handbag. But Steve noticing was a pleasant bonus.

“You do look nice, Peggy.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

There were two small plates out on the table covered with cake crumbs. The one in front of Barnes had a tiny candle put to one side. And Peggy had read the files on all of them.

“Happy birthday, Sergeant.”

“Thanks.” He chased a few crumbs with his thumb. “You coming out with us?”

“I’m afraid I have other plans, Sergeant. I just need to speak with Steve privately.”

Barnes’ blue eyes bore into her, but Peggy would be a poor spy if something like that put her off. So in the end Barnes drained his mug and got up,

“I’ll leave you two alone then.”

“You don’t-”

“It’s fine. Just don’t be late.” He dumped the mug into the sink and patted Steve on the shoulder. “Thanks for the cake, pal.”

Whatever Talent he had that let him get to where he wanted - damn that amnesia field - he chose the door this time, shutting it behind him.

“I know we’re not kids,” said Steve looking at the door, “but…”

“He’s had a rough time of it,” supplied Peggy. The Americans called that classic British understatement. She'd read the files.

“I just hope this helps him a little. Doing something normal.” He shook his head and arranged his face into something more casual. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thank you. I’m only stopping by.” Best to rip off the sticking plaster in one go. “We’re receiving three prisoners in the next week. We have reason to believe that all three of them were involved in Azzano.”

She watched Steve close his eyes, his entire body tensing up like a closed fist.

“How involved were they?”

“ _Involved_.” She touched his arm. “Steve, I’m sorry to bring this up to you today, but if we can have a Howling Commando confirm it-”

“Not Bucky.”

“No, not him. But someone. We need to know where they’ve set up next.”

“I can arrange it.”

“Just let us know on Monday.” She was still touching his arm and she removed her hand.

The rest of the Commandos were ranged in the hall and in the living room. Boys on their way to a school trip. Barnes was still in lively form, demonstrating some sort of dance with an invisible partner. Steve’s face when he was watching him was so full of hope he looked in pain.

“Steve, buddy!” Barnes twirled round to face him, “C’mon, it’s Friday night. Plenty of British girls out there wanting to learn the jitterbug from fine gentlemen like us.”

“You know I can’t dance,” said Steve fondly.

“You just need someone to teach you.” Barnes rocked to a halt, barely breathing hard. “The right partner might not be far away.”

**9.**

For most of his life Steve had been hungry. Not just for food, but for work, for his best friend, for acknowledgement. When his belly had been unsatisfied, he’d imagined the meals that fancy restaurants served. He’d even drawn some of these feasts when he had paper - vast platters of roast chickens; entire loaves of white bread slathered with butter; hot apple pie with pitchers of cream. In the future, it turned out that most fancy restaurants served intricate, jewel-like meals made from things Steve had never heard of. But at the same time the future had the _internet_ and on it there were people talking about all kinds of restaurants, sometimes even with pictures. He would have accepted tiny portions if he could walk in with his husband on his arm and pull out his chair for him.

“You are a tremendous sap, Steven Rogers.”

But he sat in the offered chair, looking around. Part of the reason Steve had chosen this place was the potted plants that screened some tables from the rest of them. It was a little like eating in a forest, but unlike the forests of Europe it was warm and dry and the food wasn’t canned.

“Nice place.” He stretched out his hand and Steve took it. “Stop looking so worried.”

“I was calm and collected this entire time.”

“Sure you were.”

Bucky kindly didn’t mention how Steve’s thumb rubbed against the heavy plain band on his ring finger and they read the menus in peace.

“They’re talking about us,” said Bucky as Steve was deciding if he liked the sound of calamari.

“Who?”

He’d asked specifically for a private table and the plants kept them hidden. Anyone who had a partial line-of-sight to them were occupied by their meals or each other.

“People who work here.” He tipped his head in the direction of the kitchen. “They’re _Googling_ us.”

“We could find another place.”

“Nah. I like the look of the hake and chorizo. _Besides_ ,” he grinned, “the waitress thinks it was ‘soooo cute’ how you pulled my chair out. Such a gentleman.”

“She’s got good taste.”

“Sure does.” He squeezed his hand. “And if you want to do a bit of necking when she comes back so everyone knows the lay of the land- Ow.”

Steve only kicked him a little bit. It was his birthday after all.

**10.**

**10th March, 1944**

“Good evening, Carter.”

Briety Krizova’s English was flawless, his Czech accent musical. There was a smile on his face, but his eyes were a partisan’s eyes. They watched everything and kept their secrets, the price of being the lynchpin of a whole resistance movement. Codename _Pevnost_ was twenty four and had been fighting for six years, even before his Talent had emerged.

“You look very nice today,” he continued, coming round to pull out her chair.

“Thank you.” She’d enhanced her smile with her dwindling supplies of lipstick and strapped a pistol to her thigh. She stowed her bag in her lap, wedging it between her legs and the table.

“I have to be away before too long,” said Krizova, checking his watch. The time on it was an hour ahead of London time. “But will the lady allow me to buy her a drink?” He dropped his voice, though it really was unnecessary with the rowdy crowd of soldiers at the other end of the bar. “The landlord allows me the use of his door and his cellar in exchange for American scotch whiskey. Off-ration, of course.”

That would explain how bustling this place was. Sugar and grain were scare and so too were the drinks. Even glasses were in short supply and many people had brought their own tonight.

“I hardly think Parliament would arrest you for smuggling.”

“Not when I do the right kind, yes? Just do not tell your Captain Rogers, please. For the sake of my Anuska’s steady hands.”

“I’m sure Captain Rogers is not that kind of man. I’ll take that drink.”

“Good.” He got to his feet, but not before scanning the room. “My Anuska, you see, treats bomb-making like an art form.” He joined the press at the bar, catching the barman’s eye.

Most of the soldiers were American GIs with local girls hanging on their arms. The heat and chatter were a wall of noise. Even with some truly awful off-key singing, it was preferable to the sound of war. Steve was there on the periphery, drink in his hand ignored. Instead of singing, he was watching the birthday boy twirl a blonde around with one hand, liquor bottle dangling from the other.

Peggy didn’t believe in woman’s intuition, but she could read a room. With mounting trepidation, she watched Barnes stop dancing to take several pulls from his bottle and Steve push away from the wall. He said something, his face turned away so Peggy couldn’t read his lips. Barnes scowled and tried to turn away. Steve caught his shoulder with one hand and Barnes whirled back.

The bottle shattered on the floorboards, brown liquor and broken glass spreading out between the two American Talents.

“Step off, Rogers! You’re not my Ma!”

They stood at the centre of a rapidly growing circle of silence. People drew away, including Barnes’ cute blonde. Both Rogers and Barnes wore the white star - _We Go First_ \- that marked American Talents. Even civilians here knew what Talents were capable of.

“I think,” said Steve, hands hovering halfway between him and Barnes, “you need some fresh air.”

“I’m not drunk, Steve, I don’t need fresh air!” He looked down at the bottle he’d smashed and that seemed to make him dig in his heels further. “I want to be fucking drunk, but I guess I can’t! But that’s _another_ fucking thing they cut out of me isn’t-”

Steve put one hand on Barnes’ shoulder and all the fight and vinegar flowed straight out of him. Were it not for that hand, Barnes looked like he would have collapsed.

“Let’s go outside, Buck.”

Other Commandos were slipping out of the crowd, surrounding the two of them. They left, some in a wobbly fashion, but they left together.

“Well.” Krizova watched them go with his partisan’s eyes. Even an expert would strain to see the concealed pistol in his jacket. “That could have been very…”

“Messy,” said Peggy, taking the glass from Krizova.

**11.**

When their desserts arrived, Bucky’s had a single candle in it. That Googling was useful stuff.

“Happy birthday, sir,” whispered the waitress, putting the plate down in front of him.

“Thank you, darling.”

The waitress blushed a little at the sight of Bucky’s hundred watt smile. As she left, Steve wondered if she’d tell her friends about it. About how pleased Bucky had been and how cute that was.

“They tried getting the right amount of candles, but it would have burnt the place down.”

“Ha, ha. You’re only sixteen months younger than me, punk.” He folded his arms staring down into the mirror-like chocolate glaze. “Now quiet. Got to think of a wish.”

Parahuman strength had got Steve through the war, parahuman endurance had preserved him in the ice. But his perfect memory was the favourite right now. Bucky’s generous mouth parting, the gentle puff of breath as he blew the candle out - it was all stored in his brain forever.

“Made a wish?”

“Yeah. I wish you wouldn’t steal any of my birthday cake.”

Despite saying that, a spoonful or two did make it Steve’s way. They went home on the train, taste of chocolate on his tongue, Bucky’s warm hand in Steve’s. And when they got there, Bucky vanished upstairs. There was music playing by the time Steve mounted the stairs.

He’d promised Bucky he’d learn to dance, and Steve thought he was getting pretty good at waltzing around the house. He hadn’t stepped on Bucky’s feet in weeks, but seeing Bucky undulate to the music made him feel so clumsy.

“I don’t know this one,” said Steve. Why was it so hard to tear his eyes of Bucky’s hips?

“1952.” He held out his hand and Steve obediently took it and followed his lead. “John Coltrane, _My One and Only Love_.”

“Now who’s the sap?”

“Still you, sweetheart.” His hand squeezed Steve’s. “But maybe I’m feeling a little sentimental.”

“I won’t tell.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. He’d always been this way, a warm, sweet mouth and calloused hands. Away from war and dock work his hands were getting softer. But Steve didn’t mind. They’d always been fighting, fighting to stay alive, to keep a roof over their head. If anyone deserved a little luxury it was Bucky.

“I got something for you.”

“Do you?” he purred in that way he had that Steve felt all the way down to his groin.

“That too. But I got you a present.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“We said that for Christmas _and_ Valentine’s and how did that go?” Bucky grinned ruefully, like Steve could have forgotten all those art supplies he’d tried to smuggle past him. “Besides I wanted to give you this.”

He was let out of their waltz and he went to the table on his side of the bed (lamp, book of 20th century US history, pencil, small notebook). In the bottom drawer, hidden under Steve’s sketchbook, was a thin package wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Bucky opened it delicately like in the old days where all scrap paper was saved for Steve’s art.

“Where’d you get this?” he said, fingers trembling a little.

“Well I thought if museums keep asking for quotes then they owe us a favour. So I called up a couple and the Historical Society made me a copy.” The diptych lay open in Bucky’s hands. “All I had to do was say that we didn’t have one of the two of us. Before.”

The picture on the left was in black-and-white. A younger Bucky and a younger Steve stood on a fire escape, grinning down at the camera. Bucky’s arm was flung over Steve’s narrow shoulders.

“Who did we know with a camera?”

“No one.” Steve sat down next to him on the bed, sliding an arm around Bucky’s waist. “It was some kind of government study from 1938.”

“Twenty-one and twenty.”

“It’s famous. Someone dug it up in the 50s.”

“Well it’s _mine_ now.”

Bucky kissed him, on the mouth, on both cheeks, on his forehead. The right-hand side was in colour, which was so cheap and easy in the future. The concept of a ‘selfie’ hadn’t been hard to grasp and wasn’t it convenient to take a photo of the two of them in the snow with no one else’s help.

“You like it?”

“I’ve always liked that mug.” He slithered over to his side of the bed (lamp, small handful of change, lurid science-fiction paperback) and set his present in prime position. “You were always so damn cute.”

“Those nights spent wheezing romantically in your ear.”

“Sweet nothings.”

He sat up, head tipped to one side, that cocky half-smile on his face. Steve had always been greedy for that look, for him. He tried not to be. He had Bucky, he had the ring and the house too. But he also wanted to watch Bucky’s progress, he wanted their upcoming honeymoon, he wanted to grow old with him.

Bucky loved him greed and all. Steve could see it in his eyes as he lowered himself onto Bucky’s cock, all his nerve endings coming alight with the pleasure of it. Just the feel of Bucky’s hand curling around his hip to steady him was enough to make him gasp.

“Look at you, sweetheart.” Bucky’s voice brought him back to earth. “Look at you.”

Talent might have fixed his lungs, but being connected in this way, being looked at in this way, always left Steve breathless. The hand on his hip squeezed gently, the other came up to his face. Fingertips traced the line of his slightly-parted mouth.

“You should be in a fucking art gallery.”

“Like what you see?” Steve managed to get out. He kissed the questing fingers and the offered mouth. “You sweet-talker you.”

“You make me- _Christ_!” Bucky groaned at that first rock of his hips. “It’s your fault, sweetheart. Make me all sentimental.”

Steve moved his hips in time to Bucky’s praises. Hands slid all over him, up his thighs, his back, his ribs. And finally, finally Bucky’s hand closed around his cock.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky was trembling with how close he was, hips thrusting up into Steve’s body. “Those birthday wishes are really something, huh?”

The feel of Steve laughing must have sent Bucky over the edge, because his back made a beautiful arc and he brought Steve along with him. They’d always worked best together.

He stayed above Bucky, watching the movement of his chest. His body bracketed Bucky’s. Hot skin pressed against hot skin like they’d never been cold in their entire lives

“Did you really use your birthday wish on this?”

That smile spread across Bucky’s face like honey. His eyes were still dark.

“I like betting on a sure thing.” He patted Steve on the thigh and Steve got off him, separating their bodies. Bucky must have seen the disappointment on his face, because he was holding out his arms, “Aw, sweetheart. Come here.”

“You know we’re disgusting,” said Steve even as he pressed back against that warm and sticky body.

“Nope, you’re beautiful,” said Bucky, limp and sentimental still, but with enough strength left in him to wrap his body around Steve’s like a boa constrictor. His head found the hollow of Steve’s throat, his leg slid over both of Steve’s.

“So are you."

Oh, give them a thousand more birthdays like this and Steve was sure he’d never need anything else. Give them more of these perfect moments. It was only what Bucky deserved.

He pressed a kiss to the nearest bit of Bucky he could reach.

“Happy birthday.”

“Best one yet.”

**12.**

**10th March, 1944**

“You British are generous. Thank you.” Krizova patted the lump in his jacket. “I’m sure you will be seeing some of these people soon. But for now I must go. May I escort the lady out?”

Peggy nodded, making sure to flutter her eyelashes appropriately. The standoff between Barnes and Steve had cooled heads a little, so it was easier to thread their way through to the door.

“I do like London,” said Krizova, hand on Peggy’s elbow. “Should I live through the war, I would love to show Anuska.”

“In the summer certainly,” said Peggy and they laughed to distract themselves from the war and all the young men like Krizova with their ancient eyes.

“That famous London pea souper,” said Krizova. He stepped back to allow a gaggle of young ladies into the building and then held onto the handle. “I will see you soon, Peggy Carter.”

He opened the door and, instead of a London street, there was a farmyard surrounded by a low stone wall. A single chicken pecked at the earth and the sky was full of stars. Krizova

( _who, in 1987, would die peacefully in his adopted home of London surrounded by his family and mourned by millions_ )

stepped through and closed the door behind him.

When Peggy opened it a second later, she saw only London. Krizova would be hundreds of miles away already and putting Allied intel to good use. She mentally wished him luck and stepped out into the blackout. London held very few fears for her, knowing what she was capable of. So when she heard the angry twang of an American accent ahead, she was merely curious.

“What the _hell_?”

The scene was lit dimly by torches, the lenses covered in tissue paper to keep to the blackout. A man with captain’s stripes was staring down at his dripping uniform in disgust. The culprit was a swaying Morita, being held up by Barnes.

“You puked on my goddamn uniform!”

“And I’m sure,” that was Steve, instantly recognisable, “that Morita will pay for any damage.”

“You better believe he’s paying.”

The other captain stepped forward and Peggy recognised him too. Captain Lawrence Moreland also known as The Indestructible Man. The white star on his sleeve painted him as a Talent, the second American Talent, emerging three weeks after Steve. Around him were the men of Talent Operative Group One.

“Sorry,” mumbled Morita, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.

“You got your apology and you’ll get the cleaning,” said Barnes. His voice was mild considering the scene he’d made earlier. “So just turn around, pal, and we-”

“I’m not your pal, you fucking headcase!”

“What did you say?”

Steve stepped up, filling the gap between his men and Moreland’s.

“You heard me.” He looked Steve up and down. “It’s a fucking disgrace is what it is. He should be locked up away from regular folks, not out here where I might have to turn my back on him.”

Steve grabbed at Moreland’s arm and there was a ripple of motion from both sides. Moreland laughed.

“Hey, genius. I’m the Indestructible Man. What’re you going to do?”

Steve was durable, but he still took wounds. As long as Moreland saw it coming, he could shrug off bullets, heat, blunt trauma. And Steve knew it too. He took a step back, his big shoulders in a tense line.

“Guess we might need a matched pair of straightjackets, boys. One for-”

One missing segment of memory later and Moreland was on the floor, Barnes looming over him.

“Guess it don’t work on the cheap shots, asshole.”

Sergeant Dempsey ( _Codename: Stretch_ ) seized Barnes with his elasticated arms, but Steve was already moving and dealt him a solid blow to the solar plexus. Moreland

( _who drank himself to death in 1977, forgotten after a long fall from grace_ )

was struggling to his feet, and spitting mad, but Dugan gave him a solid rib kick from his blind spot. Gabe had pulled a bottle out from god knows where and was fending off the glowing spear of Private Harold Loper ( _Codename: Javelin_ ).

Rapidly the situation got messy.

**13.**

Steve woke up at the usual time for his run. For a minute he kept his eyes closed. There was warm breath ghosting over his collarbone, soft hair under his chin. They’d had a peaceful night’s sleep. Both of them.

“Go on your run,” came the sleepy words against his skin. “Then we can have breakfast.”

Bucky was a long line in bed, covers pulled up under his nose. His dark hair was in disarray and one eye was cracked open.

“Well I could use a running partner,” he said cradling the back of Bucky’s head. “And I got this good-looking guy in bed with me.”

“Not going on a run day after my birthday.” He slithered completely under the covers, dragging his pillow with him. “No sweet-talking’s going to make me.”

“But I love watching you run ahead of me.”

That got him a light headbutt to the sternum.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Mmm?” said the lump in the duvet.

“I was thinking… we could go on a trip. Like a practice run for the honeymoon.”

After a pause, Bucky stuck his head out.

“Where you thinking of going?”

“D.C.?”

Bucky studied him for a moment. Steve studied him back, the pale eyes and the thick eyelashes more familiar than his own face.

“Sure. I’ll come with you.”

“Won’t be much of a honeymoon practice without my husband. Wouldn’t be much a run without him either.”

Bucky threw a pillow at his face with usual pinpoint accuracy.

**14.**

**11th March, 1944**

“Ladies, you’re slowing down. Where’s all that energy gone?”

Colonel Phillips reclined in a dining room chair someone had dragged out onto the street. If someone had transplanted him to a sunny beach, he’d look just like a man on holiday. Even on London’s drizzly street he looked relaxed. On the other hand, the men of the Howling Commandos and TOG One looked battered, bruised, and mostly hung-over. Despite that here they were in the thin light of morning, ferrying rubble from flattened houses to the waiting trucks. Private Loper bent double, vomiting up his breakfast into a grimy puddle. Dugan patted him on the back.

“Thought you all had energy to spare,” continued Phillips, “since you’ve been fighting with each other instead of the Nazis.”

Moreland glared across at Phillips, but only when he was sure he wasn’t looking. Peggy made a note of it.

“Sir, you seem almost pleased. Dare I say that’s it’s not totally pleasure over their misfortune?”

Phillips grinned around the cigar in his mouth.

“TOG 1, Agent Carter, is made up of nine Talents. Captain Rogers’ team is seven men. Two Talents. But they had them on the ropes.” He adjusted his umbrella, grinning up at the grey London sky. “I am going to rub this in Colonel Mills’ face.”

Steve had stripped off his shirt and jacket, working in his vest without any discomfort. Barnes stayed at his shoulder and if Peggy hadn’t been looking right at them, she would have missed him speak.

“You shouldn’t have-” she lipread, but Barnes

( _who followed Steve onto the Valkyrie in 1945_ )

was cut off by a friendly shoulder bump from Steve.

( _who in 1945 saved millions of American lives at the cost of his own_ )

Steve’s expression was all heartfelt sadness and fondness rolled into one.

**15.**

They took the train down to D.C. and it was nice. No one bothered them. With Steve in the aisle seat it was like they had an area cordoned off just for them, like their small tent during the war.

“What are you reading?” he asked as a small town sped past the train.

“They reprinted some of the Operator #5 stories while we were in the ice. Reminds me of when we only had to worry about a fictional evil empire.”

He smiled when he said that so Steve tried not to worry.

“Maybe I should change my codename.”

“Jimmy Christopher’s meant to be a master of disguise, Steve. You’d get about two tries before Hydra started to think ‘Another Adonis? That’s suspicious!’. Unless you started disguising yourself as a big haystack or something.”

“Adonis, huh?”

“Like you don’t know what you look like.”

Bucky hooked his leg around Steve’s and they sat like that until they reached D.C.

**16.**

**7th January, 1945**

The winter of 1945 had come on early and strong, seemingly endless. Soldiers died of the cold and snow without the intervention of the enemy.

( _Which must have been why the Valkyrie was swallowed up so quickly_ )

At least the grateful people of Bastogne had thrown open their homes, hotels, and boarding houses to the Allies. They might have had to suffer a siege over Christmas, but by New Years the Nazis had been driven out leaving behind scars and… material. Operation Contact had been set up to deal with some of this material.

Contact had taken over a small social club, guarding it discreetly with MPs and Talents. Heavy blackout curtains had been tacked up to keep out prying eyes. But despite all this, Sergeant Barnes was here standing on the other side of the coat check counter.

“What are you doing here, Sergeant?”

He looked at the gun pointed squarely at him and then back at her face. He was more alive than she’d ever seen him outside of Steve’s presence. The eyes were the exception, hooded and dim.

“Steve didn’t tattle if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. He put a hand on the counter, and made a face at the dust. “Doesn’t even know that I’m here. Big lug’s sleeping it off.”

“And why are you here?”

“Operation Contact.” A missing slice of memory and he was standing right in front of her, gun barrel pressed to his jacket. At least that proved who he was. No one else in the world had their own personal amnesia field. “I got ways of finding out, so don’t bother denying what you got in there.”

Peggy didn’t take the gun off him. This close he smelt of the cold and sex.

“You also have ways of getting into places. Why are you out here?”

“They’re under guard. Didn’t want to get shot.” He placed one finger on the barrel of Peggy’s pistol, “I got more right to be here than anyone. They’re me, aren’t they? Zola’s _refined_ process.”

“And I suppose I can’t threaten you with Steve’s disapproval.”

Barnes merely grinned. The press had loved the boyhood friends to brothers-in-arms angle. People had gotten used to Captain Rogers’ shadow, to hardly ever seeing one without the other.

“And I can’t stop you from coming along. But don’t interfere.”

“Promise.”

It was a long room with a stage at one end. Where once there had been tables and chairs, there were a handful of beds, most with privacy curtains drawn tightly around them and the quiet of the heavily sedated. The only noises were the scratch of paperwork and someone rhythmically sobbing. That was from one of the visible beds. In it was a man’s head, two arms, a leg, and no torso in between. Jamie Pugh, the report had said, captured in Italy, a Talent whose limbs operated even when severed. His torso and left leg had not been found with the rest of him in the cages. Tears rolled down his cheeks, falling to the sheets.

Barnes’ face was like a mask as he followed Peggy to the other uncovered bed. This belonged to Florian Schiffer. He was painfully thin, the shape of his skull visible, his arms like sticks. Whoever had stacked the cages up and left them in a half-collapsed barn had given Schiffer new clothes but had insisted on sewing the reeking red triangle back on. A nurse was pulling an extra blanket over him in preparation for midnight.

“You came here to talk to a dead man?” said Barnes in her ear.

“It’s his Talent. Whenever he’s hurt he becomes inert like this until midnight. Completely invulnerable, but unaware. You can’t sense him using it?”

Barnes shook his head,

“Probably will get it when he changes. People don’t sense Steve all the time either even with his new body.” He folded his arms, looking down at the unmoving chest. “Daylight’s when they hurt him the most. If he wakes up at night.”

Peggy didn’t think he was wrong.

The clock on the wall ticked over to midnight and Florian Schiffer gasped softly. He blinked once, twice, his fingers twitching under his blanket.

“ _Calme, calme_ ,” the nurse said in soothing French. Peggy waited while Schiffer was fed tiny spoonfuls of broth and made to swallow a single pill. Only then were they waved forward.

“Hello, Florian,” she said in German.

Schiffer turned his head, his eyes huge in his gaunt face. The skin of his right cheek was hideously scarred, one side of his mouth pulled permanently down. His eyes travelled over the both of them, but Peggy had borrowed clean civvies tonight and Barnes was wearing the blue coat he wore in the field with no rank or designation.

“My name is Peggy,” she continued. “I know you’re tired, Florian, but I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may.”

Schiffer was trembling and the tremors seemed to travel upwards to his chin and then to his mouth. But slowly his lips parted and, through ruined teeth, he said,

“Why?”

“We need to know anything you can tell us about how you were brought to Bastogne.” She didn’t touch him. That act had been tainted for him by scientists with knives and worse. So she kept her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “If they have anyone else then we need to put a stop to it.”

Schiffer closed his eyes and sighed once. His breath smelt like broth and starvation.

“They don’t stop. Look what they did.”

Peggy didn’t have to look beneath the blankets, not when she had the neat little reports. Starvation. Bones that had been broken and healed wrong or never healed at all. An ugly knot of scar tissue where his genitals used to be. There had been seven people in the cages, one already dead, two they could not keep alive, and most of them in trouble still.

“I cannot help you,” continued Schiffer. “They were testing me by locking me in a big tank of water. I started to… I would wake every midnight to start to drown again. I was moved while inert.” His eyes were elsewhere. Like Barnes’ eyes.

“Do you know where you were held initially?”

“Near Berlin? A hospital.” Schiffer blinked. “There was a hospital on the other side of the grounds. They had a swimming pool. Gardens. Chairs in the sunlight. For them to get better.”

He moaned once and then he started to shake. Like magic, the nurse appeared.

“Grab his arms, miss,” she said in French. “You, sir, get his legs.”

Together the three of them held him down onto the mattress. His body jerked with surprising power considering. Peggy took care not to drive him back into an inert state.

“Mr Schiffer?” said the nurse.

Schiffer said nothing, but it was when the nurse turned her back that he moved. Two days of thin broth and rest were not nearly enough to recover from what had been done to him, but he still managed to grab at Barnes’ sleeve.

“Oh, they let you stay strong and beautiful when they had you. It’s not fair!”

Barnes flinched. Peggy caught the merest glimpse of his eyes - alive now and afraid - then suddenly he wasn’t in the room anymore.

“It’s not fair,” repeated Schiffer. Then he started to cry in big, ugly gulps.

“That is enough for today,” said the nurse, her no-nonsense hair bun and steely eyes forbidding all protests. But she was so gentle in wiping off Schiffer’s face, that Peggy couldn’t find it in herself to argue.

Barnes was outside, planted like a statue on the snowy street. There were no footprints leading up to him and Peggy knew that was a vital clue as to how he got around. But the amnesia effect kept the answer from her. It was very frustrating.

“Where are they going after this?”

“England. There’s a hospital in the country that will take them.” If they survive, she added to herself.

“Sounds nice,” said Barnes. “Rolling lawns. Ice pick to the brain.”

“Believe it or not, Barnes, that will be the very last resort. Even without Steven Rogers stepping in.” She squared up to him. He wasn’t the largest man she’d had to face. “What was that in there? He knew you were-”

“Carter,” he growled.

“The wolf-woman knew it too,” said Peggy, not mentioning words like _process_ or _reeducation_ or _torture_.

“You don’t want to go down that road, darling.”

“Well the road says that Mad Talents can recognise each other. Any new Talent information has to be passed on.”

“When is it enough for you people?” Barnes exploded. There was no other word for the anger in his voice. “Haven’t those poor fuckers in there had enough? Where’s the fucking line, Carter, if it’s not having the Nazis or Hydra slice you open? Is it when our side does it instead?” He pointed at the dark shape of the building with its delicate cargo protected inside. “You tell the brass about it and they’re going to trot those fellas out like a honey trap for Mad Talents. Something _useful_ like that Baba Yaga thing up in Russia or me. Hell, maybe they’ll just send me and I am not leaving Steve alone!”

The last word echoed off the side of the buildings and hearing his rage reflected back at him seemed to drain something out of him.

“Don’t tell them, Carter. Please.”

“Would you kill me to keep the secret, James?”

“It would be the worse thing I did in this war.” Barnes’ eyes were in shadow and impossible to read, “He was right you know. Schiffer. They wanted to use me to fight for Hydra so they didn’t touch the right arm much. The face because they wanted a propaganda victory and to use me against Steve.” He smiled across at her, grim and entirely without humour. “Didn’t castrate me because they wanted breeding stock. Guess they got enough Talents of their own for that now.”

“You survived.”

“All things considered I got off easy…” He turned, peering down the street. “Guess I’m about to get into trouble.”

A shape emerged out of the darkness. Steve hadn’t done up his jacket and Peggy could see the pale flash of his shirt. He was brave - the kind of man who would charge into a fight with just his shield, or run out into the snow without a coat. The kind of man who died on the battlefield unless he was very lucky, or had very good friends watching out for him.

“I won’t say anything,” she whispered and Barnes- James’ body unwound just a little.

“Thanks.”

Then Steve was on them, the pale triangle of his throat gleaming, his body steaming in the freezing air.

“Bucky.”

“Hey, Steve. Couldn’t sleep. I was going to walk the lady home.”

The look of relief on Steve’s face was almost painful. His big hand - no gloves! - patted Bucky on the shoulder, while they had a silent conversation with their expressions.

“I’ll walk with you both.”

Neither of them said a thing as they walked with Peggy, one on either side of her. No doubt they were saving their conversation for when they were alone, so when they dropped her off at her billet, the first thing she did was open her bedroom window. The one that overlooked the side street.

“Why’d you go, Bucky?”

Peering through the gap in the curtains, Peggy couldn’t see James’ face. His back was expressive though. He had both arms wrapped around his body, and he was staring up into Steve’s face.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Perspective if you want to call it anything.”

“Did you get it?”

“Who knows?”

They stood out in the snow, all the cold stars looking dispassionately down at them. Steve looked right back at them.

“What I know is… It’s a terrible thing to think, but I’m glad it wasn’t you. You were so _hurt_ when we got you from Azzano-”

“When you rescued me,” said James in such a soft voice, Peggy strained to hear it.

“I’d do it as many times as I have to.” Both of his big hands landed on James’ shoulders. “But if it was… If it was you nothing would have changed. No matter what they did to you. I’m just so _glad_ -” his voice broke “-that you don’t have to worry about anything more than you have to. And I’d take it for you if I only could.”

“I know. My hero.”

Steve’s shoulders started to quiver, but James shook his head.

“C’mon don’t cry. Just hug me like you want to, you dope.”

Despite those words, James sagged into Steve’s arms the moment they were around him.

“Nothing would have changed, huh?”

“ _Nothing_.”

“I believe you, pal. I believe you.”

In less than two months they were gone.

**17.**

War didn’t leave many opportunities to talk floral arrangements, so initially Steve was flummoxed by the sheer choice at the florist. Luckily the shop girl was very helpful and he ended up with a bouquet of mini sunflowers. He’d chosen them on the strength of their cheerful yellow petals against the overcast Spring day, but maybe it was wrong.

“Relax,” Bucky had said as they were changing into their good clothes. “She’ll love them. Trust me. Of the two of us, who’s actually bought flowers for a dame?”

Now he sat in the back of a cab, feeling pathetically grateful for Bucky holding his hand.

“It’s a nice place,” said Bucky, squeezing his hand.

It was. Steve had been afraid of something institutional like the places they stuck the sick and the queers back in the thirties - the kind of place that had always been lurking as a kind of threat in the background. But this place looked like a country house. And there were gardens. Inside there were plants and vases full of flowers. The walls were a soothing shade of green, the nurses dressed in an equally soothing blue. One of the nurses lead them up to the second floor to a door marked ‘16’. And he stood there knowing that he was making note of all of it just so he wouldn’t have to go through the door.

“Steve. You know she won’t care. You know she won’t.”

“I know.”

And since there were very few mysteries between the two of them Bucky knew there was a ‘but’ trying to make its way out. His warm hand slid to the back of his neck.

“You never know, sweetheart. She might see your face and be glad she got a seventy-year break.”

“You married this face, jerk.”

Bucky took his free hand and squeezed it.

“I love that face, punk.”

Steve squeezed back and when Bucky let go, he knocked on the door.

She was still beautiful. Sat up in bed in her shawl, she looked fragile, until you saw her eyes which blazed.

“Hello, Steve.”

“I’m… Hi, Peggy. I’m back.”

Then tears were spilling down her cheeks onto her nightgown and all he had was a fistful of sunflowers against seventy years. The entire scene blurred shamefully before him.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Bucky appeared at Peggy’s bedside, with the faintest breath of displaced air. There was a box of tissues on the bedside table and he pulled several out. “He never did learn how to talk to women. I should’ve taken more interest in his education.”

Already Peggy was more dry-eyed than Steve. She gently dabbed at her cheeks.

“Hello, James. You’re looking well.”

“It’s been a long time. I think you get to call me Bucky.”

“You’re looking well too, Steve. And… I hear congratulations are in order.”

She smiled. They all had fewer opportunities to smile in the war, not when the next mission could be just around the corner. But when Peggy smiled… If Steve had been normal and not so completely in love with someone else, he could have fallen in love with her.

“I’m sorry! I should have come sooner. Or written at least. And I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have let the Captain Rogers’ best girl thing get out of hand. I’m so sorry-”

But Peggy was already laughing.

“Oh, Steve. I’ll admit I wouldn’t have said no if you asked. But as it was the rumours weren’t a burden. I didn’t have to break quite as many noses as I used to. And,” she turned her head to regard Bucky, “I had my suspicions.”

“You did?” Steve rubbed at his face with his sleeve. “We were always so careful.”

“I’ll admit I could have been wrong, but sometimes, when you thought you were alone, you looked at each other like there was no one else in the world. Seeing you on the news you were married might have been the bigger clue.”

Bucky laughed, tipping his head back.

“I’d have liked to get your blessing, but we had to move so fast.”

“Well the both of you looked so handsome.”

“That was Bucky’s doing mostly. He spent all morning on my hair.”

“Someone has to, you big lug.”

“I’m glad. I’m so glad you got the chance to be open about it.”

“If it makes you feel better, Peggy,” said Bucky, “if he wasn’t mine, I’d have thrown him at you so fast.”

“He needs someone to look after him. To stop him rushing ahead.”

“I try, darling.”

“I forgot what it was like having the two of you ganging up on me.”

“He’s always so dramatic,” said Peggy in a fake whisper.

**18.**

**14th August, 1943**

“Steven Rogers is the scrappiest fella I know,” was what Bucky Barnes, the mythical best friend, had said. “Just point him at the Nazis and he’ll win the war for you.”

The press had loved that. And while they were clamoring for the brass’ opinions, the two of them had vanished backstage. Peggy saw them go and she trailed them through the maze of corridors and dressing rooms.

“So you’re here…”

“I promised.”

“Yeah, you did.”

From just around the corner, Peggy watched Barnes put his hand on the swell of muscle on Rogers’ shoulder. He pushed, trying to move him.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah. But only for a couple of minutes.” Rogers’ hand came up, to touch Barnes’ wrist. “I used to hurt all the time before. But I don’t now. It was worth it.”

“That’s good. Really, Steve.” Barnes patted him once before his hand went back to his side. “You just stick with me out there. Okay?”

“I don’t need protecting any more, Buck. I can protect you now.”

Barnes smiled, all fondness and sadness.

“You can do that too.”

**19.**

When it happened, it happened insidiously like poison gas. Peggy had the photo album out. There were pictures of her in exotic locals, her husband, children, grandchildren. There was even one very new photo that had to be the first great-grandchild. And then there was also Peggy and the remainder of the Commandos.

“V-E Day,” she said, her fingertips touching the very edge of the photograph. “Everyone… was so relieved, like a great weight had been lifted from them. We were still busy but I managed to slip away for one drink to honour the fallen.”

“I wish we could have been there,” said Steve, putting his hand over Peggy’s. It was like a bird’s bones.

“If we had kept looking for the _Valkyrie_ ,” said Peggy, lost in the photograph, “maybe we could have had two more at the table.” Her other hand patted Steve’s. “I still miss Captain Rogers everyday.”

“Peg?”

Peggy’s eyes were wide and their blazing intensity had dimmed.

“ _Steve_ ,” she breathed. “You’re alive.”

Something in Steve’s chest seized. It was worse than any asthma attack, any heart murmur, any bullet.

“I… I’m back.” He felt Bucky’s warm hands on his shoulders and Peggy’s bird-like ones on his wrists. “I’m back, Peg.”

**20.**

Steve was hardest on himself when he was in pain. Transforming into a Greek God hadn’t changed that. What did change was the cause. Skinny Steve had had colds, fevers, and every illness that might be lurking around Brooklyn’s tenements. Nursing him had been like pulling teeth sometimes: Bucky wasn’t love-blind enough to forget that. But he’d done it. He’d poured liquids and medicine down his throat, helped him go to the can, threatened to tie him to the bed. And here in the future, he put his hand on Steve’s and said,

“Enough.”

Steve turned to him, opening his mouth with some protest prepared. Bucky shook his head.

“That’s enough, Steve.”

In her bed, Peggy watched them with incomprehension. Her hands trembled on the quilt.

“What are you doing in my room?” she said.

“Sorry, darling,” said Bucky. He turned on the Barnes charm. “We must have made a wrong turn.”

“This building doesn’t allow male callers,” she said and some of the fire crept back into her eyes. “I am not looking for another situation at this time of year.”

“I’m sorry, Peg,” said Steve. He climbed to his feet, shaking off Bucky’s hand. “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed,

“Do I _know_ you?”

Bucky had met Steve at the age of six. He knew the way Steve’s mouth clamped into a straight line when he was in pain and God forbid anyone knew it.

“Yeah, Peg.”

Steve really clammed up when they left, saying nothing even when Bucky took his hand in the elevator.

“Hey,” said Bucky, tangling their fingers together, “you want to go back to the hotel?”

Curt nod. There was a muscle jumping in his jaw. He didn’t say a word in the cab or in the hotel lobby. When they got to the room he sat down on the bed and stared blankly at the TV. But Bucky had forgotten that when Steve was quiet it was because he was plotting something. He went to the bathroom for two minutes and when he came out Steve had changed into his running gear.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I just need… I have to sort this all out.” His broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “In my head, you know?”

“Oh, I know all about that. Chief headcase, remember?”

The famous Barnes sense of humour failed to land. In fact, Steve winced like Bucky had slugged him in the face.

“I won’t be long, Buck.” He moved past him, towards the door.

“Hey. You forgetting something?” Bucky rummaged in Steve’s discarded jacket until he found his phone. “You need me, call me, okay?”

“Okay,” he echoed. It was incredibly unconvincing, but at least he took the damn phone with him. And then he was gone.

At least Bucky knew where Steve was. His Talent - the original one, the only one not forced on his by Nazi mad scientists, the only one he had totally positive thoughts about - was detecting heartbeats. He’d found Steve’s from fifty miles away and through a mountain. He’d probably know Steve from a hundred miles, just like he knew that Steve was hardest on himself when he was in emotional pain. He’d marched straight into Azzano by himself.

Bucky crossed over to the bed and settled down, tracking Steve’s progress down to the first floor. Steve was such an idiot sometimes. He was lucky Bucky loved him.

**21.**

Steve’s legs ate up the D.C. sidewalk. His brain turned off, guiding him automatically around people and traffic. He ran until even his muscles started to burn. Any nearby Talents would have sniffed him out immediately, but there were only a few hundred left. The world had left Talents behind, the fliers and the shapeshifters, the strongmen and the teleporters.

He ran until the rumble of thunder brought him back to his body. A nearby building had an awning and he got underneath it just before the heavens opened. Childishly, he was glad it was raining. It was all this terrible day needed and the fact he’d have to run back in it was the cherry on top.

He hoped Bucky wasn’t out in this. After the war ( _and the ice_ ) he hated the cold so much. He’d probably lie on their hotel bed and watch it. No, he’d be in the bed, curled up like only he could be with his spine made of rubber bands. He’d have a book and a mug of coffee.

Picturing it was like being punched. It was such a cosy, domestic image. He wanted to be home with Bucky, curled up chest-to-back. What good was he to his husband out here and in this state?

“Hey, man,” said a familiar voice, cutting through his pity party. “Can you not stand out here making the rest of us feel inadequate?”

A black man was half out the door looking at him. He was grinning and there was a gap between his two front teeth.

“I mean, I run and I eat right,” he continued, “but come on.”

“Sam?”

“In the flesh.” He came out under the awning and they shook hands. “Hell of a day out. I’m guessing the trip isn’t going well?”

“Not so much,” said Steve, his gaze dropping to the floor. Curled up with Bucky in bed. He could have been there right now.

“You better come in then.”

His phone pinged as he entered the VA, but Steve ignored it for now. Sam lead him into a room with a table of picked-over snacks and coffee and neat ranks of chair that were in the process of being put away. Sam threw himself onto one and Steve sat next to him. He suddenly became conscious of his sweat.

“I went to see her,” he said to the floor between his running shoes. “SHIELD told me how she was, but seeing her forget like that… I was right there next to her and she started talking about how much she misses us.”

“That’s rough, man. Seriously. Dementia is really tough to deal with even if you’ve got time to get used to it. You’re plunging right in at the deep end.”

“I got her back, but she went again and… Bucky pulled me out. I just needed to…” He gestured at his running gear. “Literally run away from my problems.”

“Exercise is good chemicals for your brain,” said Sam.

“I know, I know.” Steve put his hands together, lacing his fingers. If he stared at them then he wouldn’t have to look at Sam. Therapy was a lot easier on the phone: how did Bucky do this person? “When she forgot… it was almost like being in the ice again. Is that weird? I mean, Bucky and I know other people like you, but Peggy…”

“She was there, right? She knows what it was like on the ground.”

Steve pictured Bucky’s dark hair on his pillow, the way he dug into the blankets while waiting for Steve to get in. Warm skin against his.

“She was,” he said to his hands. “She was amazing. We weren’t together,” he added hurriedly. “Never that. But she was more of a fighter than most of the men I knew back then. She helped me get Bucky into the Commandos and stay there for the whole war. I can never repay her for that.”

His phone pinged again and Steve nearly swatted it. Sam stared up at the ceiling, his mouth working.

“How’s your boy doing?”

“Bucky?” His wedding band gleamed on his finger. “He’s doing really well. Dr. Bidwell’s talking about finding him some group therapy and his birthday went off perfectly. We’re catching up on our reading.”

“So he’s doing good. That’s excellent. But there any reason why you can’t talk to Bucky about Peggy?”

“I… He’s got enough problems without adding mine to it.”

“He’s got problems, yeah. Bet you’d take it all for him if you could. But let’s look at what he’s done.” Sam counted off on his fingers. “He came with you on this trip. He got you out when it got too much for you. And I bet you I know who’s been texting you.”

“He should be looking after himself.” Curled up warm and comfortable in bed.

“Steve. I’m not saying that you go dump things on him when he’s in the middle of a panic attack. But four,” he held out another finger, “you two did vow in sickness and in health, right?”

Steve worked his phone out of his pocket. His phone background was Bucky too. Occasionally Bucky changed it to himself pulling ridiculous sultry faces, but at the moment it was Bucky when they’d gone to see the Christmas lights. For just a second Steve looked at the smiling face half-buried in his scarf, the ends of his hair catching the light and making a halo.

All three messages were from Bucky.

 _Are you okay?_ 4.32 pm

 _I’m ordering food._ 6.54 pm

 _Chinese okay?_ 6.59 pm

“And point five,” said Sam when Steve showed him, “getting you some supplies. That’s love.”

“You think he won’t mind?” On his phone screen, Bucky smiled up at him.

“Your poor husband.” Sam rolled his eyes, “Steve, buddy. The guy couldn’t be clearer if he was holding a sign saying ‘I want to support you through this’.” But he patted Steve on the shoulder, the way pals did. “Help me with these chairs and I might just give you a ride.”

“Just a minute.” And he carefully tapped out ‘ _Sounds good :)_ ’ on his phone.

Sam was true to his word, with only a few mutters about how far Steve had run and how much space he took up in the car. And when they reached the hotel, joining a short queue of drop-offs, there was a familiar figure paying a delivery driver.

“Aw, you got it bad.”

“Shush,” said Steve, not trying to stop that dopey grin Bucky liked to point out.

“Just saying. It must be love. You want to catch him before he goes up?”

“He knows I’m here.” Bucky had moved out the way, but stopped under the awning, two stuffed bags in one hand. Waiting. “He detects heartbeats and he always knew mine.”

“That’s both romantic and a little creepy.”

“He can hear you too.” Even through the silvery rain, he saw Bucky nod. “Do you want to meet him?”

Sam glanced in the mirror. There was no one waiting behind them.

“Suppose I better introduce myself. Wouldn’t want him going all Taken on me. It’s a movie.” He added.

“We should start catching up on movies too.”

He got out of the car and Bucky was suddenly there. Steve could reach out and touch him.

“Sorry, Buck.”

“Don’t be dumb, sweetheart.”

He leant in, kissing him, his lips warm and sweet, his body slightly cool from being outside. Without entirely conscious effort, his hands tangled in the back of Bucky’s soft sweater. It was like coming home.

“Okay then,” said Sam. He was grinning though. “You guys do that every time?”

“Only when he gets brought home by strange men,” said Bucky. He put one last kiss on Steve’s cheek. “You going to let me go, or am I going to have to say hi to Sam from this hug?”

He didn’t go far and Bucky and Sam shook hands.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Bucky Barnes. Thanks for taking care of him.”

Sam shrugged,

“He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s worth the time.”

Bucky laughed, showing white teeth and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Take care of him now. And next time you’re in town, look me up.”

They waved goodbye as Sam drove off - Steve making a mental note to send flowers or cookies or something - and Bucky took his hand.

 _He wants to support you_ , Sam had said. Bucky had held his hand in the same way leaving Peggy’s home and in the cab back and in the cab there too. It made something bloom soft and aching in his chest.

“I’m sorry-” he said again when they were alone in the elevator, but Bucky squeezed his hand.

“Food first.” He watched the numbers flash up on the screen. “I like Sam. He’s got you down to a T.”

“A pain in the ass?”

“The biggest. But worth it.” The soft, aching thing in his chest expanded crowding out his lungs and heart. Bucky laid his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “You go shower and I’ll get the food set up. Then we talk, okay?”

“Okay.” _I love you._

He heard Bucky singing even over the noise of the shower and hummed along to _Everybody Loves My Baby_ until he was clean. Bucky had put on sleepwear too, soft pants and a hoodie that Steve knew was his and did not remember packing. He loved him even more for that.

“So,” said Bucky as they ate, “I’m not trained in talking about stuff like this but… There’s choices, right?”

“Right,” said Steve, once he swallowed his mouthful of crab and rice.

“They still don’t know what makes Talents,” said Bucky, veering onto another tangent. His fingers fiddled with the drawstring of Steve’s hoodie. “People get into trouble every day and it doesn’t mean they’re getting super powers out of it. But it’s not conscious. No one chose what they got, right? But if some fella came up to you on the street in 1940 and told you could be healthy and taller and lift a jeep over your head and all you had to do was-” He prodded Steve in the arm. “How long did it hurt for?”

“Two minutes?”

One hundred and twenty seconds of absolute agony, screaming himself hoarse on the recruitment station floor while every bone stretched and grew.

“All that for two minutes of pain then. You’d say yes, right?”

“I guess I would.”

“So if the same fella came up to you in 1945 and said you could save millions of lives. You could even stop half the war. All you gotta do is crash a plane into the ice and never been seen again? That’s a choice, but not really. Because the Steve Rogers I know wouldn’t let even one person die.” Bucky fidgeted on the chair, “Basically. There’s choices that you make and ones that were made for you. And ones that you make because the alternative… I’m not good at this.” He laid his knife and fork on his plate in a neat line. “Peggy knows that you wouldn’t have left everyone behind unless you had a hell of a good reason, and you had millions of reasons. No one would be mad at you for that.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“I know. You think you can’t be mad because it was a choice you made or maybe because some things are going well for us.” The light caught his wedding band. “But you’re not a weapon. You can be mad or sad or whatever because you’re a human being and what’s happening to Peggy Carter is a goddamn crime.”

“Us,” said Steve, once he’d worked the lump in his throat down. “We both sacrificed.”

“Going with you was always my choice.” Bucky swiped his thumb over the corner of his mouth, licking away a drop of soy sauce. “You done eating? Let me get rid of these.”

Bucky teleported away with the bags and plates and left Steve alone in the room. He’d been right about Bucky. There was a pile of pillows on one side of the bed with a half-buried paperback almost lost within. The bookmark marked where the Purple Empire were unleashing their cholera bombs, but Jimmy Christopher wouldn’t be sacrificing himself in this installment, not with so much of the book left.

The wind had howled at them both as they brought the Valkyrie down, but neither that or the impact had broken their grip on each other’s hands. That had been the water, slamming into them like a cold fist. He’d thought he’d lost Bucky, until they’d found each other in the dark.

“Aw, sweetheart,” said Bucky, reappearing in front of him.

Steve didn’t realise he was crying until Bucky touched his cheek. He guided them both down into the pillows, sheltering Steve against that familiar body.

“You’re always trying to hold up the whole world on your shoulders. Even when you were small.”

“I didn’t cry this much when-” His voice broke.

“No, you didn’t. And you didn’t accept any help. You were too angry at the world.” Bucky stroked his back and the short hairs at the back of his neck. “And I’m pretty much the expert on self-loathing.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I know. But don’t worry. I’m told crying is very healthy.”

“God, is it?”

“So they say. Feels horrible when you’re doing it.” He shifted Steve a little so he was crying onto a dry patch of his hoodie. “Let me take some of the weight, okay? I got you, sweetheart. I got you.”

**22.**

**7th March, 1945**

When they’d brought news of Michael to their home, Mother had fainted dead away. Peggy had stood rooted to her spot by the window and cried for the loss of the only person ( _then_ ) who truly understood her.

George Barnes had frozen on his seat on the couch, his fingers digging into the arm like someone was going to rip him from his seat. Winifred Barnes had lost her grip on the tea tray. The coffee pot and mugs shattered and she nearly collapsed into the mess. Peggy managed to get her onto the couch too, just in time for her to start to weep. Slowly, like a man waking from a terrible dream, George Barnes put an arm around his wife.

“You’re sure. You’re sure it was him.”

“Yes, we’re sure.” Peggy almost regretted volunteering to come and give the bad news. Sitting in the Barnes’ tiny parlour with the family photo on the wall - _Steve in the middle with James’ arms around his narrow shoulder_ \- and the newspaper clipping - _OUR BROOKLYN BOYS, the headline with Steve and James in uniform_ \- tacked next to it. “We were in radio contact. He was with Captain Rogers-”

“Those poor boys,” sobbed Winifred. “Those poor boys.”

“The details are classified, but he wanted you to know he was with Steve at… at the end.”

“He wasn’t alone.” George nodded. His face crumpled, slow and terrible like a rotting house. “My only boy.”

**23.**

The rain continued to pour down on D.C. and Bucky was warm indoors. Mostly that was because Steve had fallen asleep on top of him, but Bucky had a touch of super-strength and Steve had just worked out a lot of the day’s events. Maybe even their entire time in future had started to dislodge. So Bucky didn’t begrudge him any of it, just kept him in place with one arm, all the heavy muscle gone loose with sleep. He didn’t need to be powerful right now, just damn cute with his face buried against Bucky’s chest.

In his book Operator #5 was planning to stop a Purple Empire supply train carrying super-weapons to be used on the strong-jawed, broad-shouldered patriots that were standing in their way. Had the Nazis stepped onto US soil, that would have been Steve all the way. Of course there was no PTSD in the pulps, no broken flight-or-fight responses, no panic attacks that sent the hero to his knees. Things were simpler.

Steve huffed in his sleep like he could hear what he was thinking, which was all either of them needed. True mind-reading Talents didn’t exist outside the comics. Both sides of the war had looked for one in vain. Closest they ever got were a few guys with a one-way telephone line to people’s brains. Imagine Steve trying to get into people’s brains like he got into a German pillbox. People’s heads would be snapping to one side from the sheer force of it. Bucky tried not to laugh too hard at the mental image. Not when Steve needed sleep.

In the small hours, just in time for the second watch, Steve started to stir. He nuzzled deeper into Bucky, sliding his cheek up and down his own ridiculously large, ridiculously comfortable sweater. Then his eyes fluttered opened.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Oh, how long was I asleep?” He glanced at the digital clock on the table and working the sleep out of one eye, “You should have woke me.”

“Yeah, if there’s one thing I hate it’s cuddling. We certainly don’t own a big bed and only use a third of it.”

“You think we could have saved money and got something smaller,” said Steve. He put his head back down on Bucky’s chest, his eyes not even red. Parahuman endurance for you. God, he was warm, but even Talents moulded by the US Army and Hydra’s worst needed to fulfil some basic needs.

“Hey, I gotta use the can.”

“Sweet nothings.”

But Steve rolled off him and Bucky went to take care of business. When he came back Steve had been rooting in the little fridge - with the very expensive candy! - and was drinking a bottled water.

“Hi.”

He was so damn cute. These future people might have thought sex got invented twenty years ago ( _by_ _their time_ ), but they never saw all the dames get flustered over Steven Rogers in those Talent trick-pony films. Not that he had any interest. Dr. Bidwell had mentioned the Kinsey Scale and Steve was a solid ‘B’ for Bucky.

“Hi, Steve.” He let himself get enfolded in Steve’s hug, “How you feeling?”

“Better, Buck. Better.”

“Good.”

He felt Steve take a deep breath like he was gearing up for a fight.

“You know what you said about choice. The ones you have to make because the alternative…” His hug got fractionally tighter. “On the _Valkyrie_ , you couldn’t just teleport out because of the momentum.” He would have turned into a red smear on the ice, but Bucky didn’t mention that. “But I might have survived the jump. Might have survived waiting in the Arctic for rescue. But you… I chose not to leave you alone.”

That little speech done, he stared at Bucky like he was waiting to be punched. As a solid 0.000001 on the Kinsey scale, that was the one single manly square-jawed patriot that Bucky wanted to kiss.

“And I could’ve teleported straight up when we survived the crash. I mean, probably wouldn’t have survived out there with wet clothes. But you were looking for me in the dark. That’s what _I_ chose. And,” he said as Steve opened his mouth, “you can’t be mad at me for it, otherwise you’d be a hypocrite.”

“But you said I could be mad or sad if I wanted,” he said with that shit-eating grin on his face. “I’m a human being, Bucky.”

“You’re not a human being, you’re the worst husband I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”

He didn’t stop laughing even when Bucky hit him with a pillow.

“I fucking adore you, you asshole,” said Bucky when he’d run out of ammunition. He wasn’t going to risk the life of Jimmy Christopher against Steve’s hard head.

“I still like sweetheart better.” Steve checked the clock again, “Let’s go to bed.”

Pillows were scooped off the floor and put back into a neat line, his book was put on the table. Bucky could feel tiredness seeping into him as he did it. Civilian life and its regular sleep schedule were spoiling him. So he pressed himself against Steve’s back, wrapping an arm around him. Nice to know Steve hadn’t outgrown this. Nice to confirm his point as well. A perfect weapon would be strong, like Steve, but also armoured and cold. But Steve wasn’t a weapon, and he was warm and soft-skinned because the most important thing about him had always been inside.

“You’re okay back there?” whispered Steve in the dark.

“Yeah, I got all this back to myself.”

“Alright.” He stroked the back of Bucky’s hand. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

**24.**

Steve didn’t need as much sleep as he used to, so when he opened his eyes for a second time there was no light creeping in around the curtain. He could wait. War had been mostly waiting and walking. There were worse places to wait than in a hotel bed with Bucky’s face mashed in between his shoulder blades. His breath tickled and one hand rested just above his naval. Steve should treat him to breakfast in the morning. And then work a lot harder on himself. On feeling mad or sad if he wanted to.

Behind him, Bucky burrowed in deeper. It was much too early for him to wake up. Steve’s suspicions were only confirmed when he voiced a breathy cry into Steve’s back.

He didn’t wrap a hand around Bucky’s wrist. He’d only done that once, and the sheer terror in Bucky’s face at thinking he’d been tied down made him swear off it forever. Instead he rubbed the back of Bucky’s hand. Even then Bucky jerked his way out of sleep, the warmth draining out of him like water.

“Hey, Buck. It’s okay.” He turned very carefully around onto his other side. “We’re in the hotel.”

Bucky took horrible gasps of air. All of his muscles trembled under Steve’s hand. Then after a minute, his body unwound back onto the mattress.

“Hey, Steve,” he croaked.

“Hey.”

Bucky marshalled his face into a wobbly smile.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Steve rolled onto his back. Bucky lay half on of top of him to protect Steve and Steve put an arm around Bucky to protect him back. Cold fingers found his and Steve squeezed them. _Here I am_.

“Thanks, Steve.”

Bucky was a long cool line pressed against him, stealing body warmth. In the ice, so they’d been told, they’d been so tangled together no one could tell who was who. They’d clung together against the water and the war before that.

“You did the same for me.”

Bucky’s hand squeezed back. _Here I am_. His fingers were warming up, less like ice with every heartbeat. And then suddenly there was light coming in around the edge of the curtains, a warm hand in his.

“Morning,” said the lump under the quilt. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good.” And he did. Even if he felt like he’d been scrubbed halfway to raw. “Haven’t slept that much in years. How are you?”

“Good,” said Bucky, emerging from under the covers.

Watching Bucky stretch was always an education, especially when he touched the back of his head with his foot. Even if he hadn’t chosen parahuman agility, his grace was beautiful.

“Sam told me about an all-day breakfast place that does a stack of pancake bigger than my head.”

“And I thought he couldn’t go up more in my estimation.” Bucky twisted his back to the left and right.

“We still have another night here so we could sightsee.”

“And you are pretty much as tall as the Washington Monument now.” Bucky bent backwards, touching his thighs with the back of his head before straightening up. “Don’t step on the other tourists.”

“Do you think… you could come with me another time? To see Peggy again?”

“Sure.” No hesitation. “Can help you plan it out if you like?”

“I’d like that.”

When Bucky smiled down at him, Steve echoed it. He was so lucky. Even after all the pain and lost years Bucky was still here and fighting.

“You’re a good person, Bucky.” He looked slightly startled, but Steve sat up and took his hand. “I know that you don’t think so all the time, but I do. And I know you think the same about me when I don’t.”

Bucky’s hair was sleep-mussed and he wore a too-big hoodie with the hood skewed to one side. He was the most beautiful person in the world, even if his stubble scratched when they kissed.

“You say the nicest things, you dope.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Let me know what you guys thought.
> 
> Godlike, Pevnost, The Indestructible Man, and Baba Yaga are owned by Arc Dream Publishing. If you're into pen and paper RPGs, check it out!
> 
> The title is from the song 'Those Were The Days' by Vera Lynn.
> 
> Operator #5 is a pulp hero, published from 1934 to 1939 and written by many people under the wonderful pen name of Curtis Steele. Bucky's reading the Purple Invasion arc where the Purple Empire (a thinly veiled Nazi Germany) conquers the United States.


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